


Assholes and Revelations

by Caz (CheeryKralie)



Category: BioShock
Genre: Bad Jack cranked up to 11, Blowjobs, Fellatio, Kink Meme, M/M, Sander Fucking Cohen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheeryKralie/pseuds/Caz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Rapture, you are not constrained by petty morality. A fill I wrote for the Bioshock Kink Meme, anon asked for Cohen letting Jack suck his dick as a reward for a job well done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assholes and Revelations

The lights of the Fleet Hall are flickering ominously. But he’s used to that now.

Maybe it’s in self-defence, but Jack finds himself enjoying some things about Rapture. He’s _strong_ here. He can fight half a dozen splicers at once and wipe the floor with them. When he remembers how scared and small and lost he felt stepping out of that first bathysphere, he can hardly believe it, but — then he made it through that restaurant. And then he made it through the Medical Pavilion, and then the docks, and then Arcadia. And somewhere along the line, he’s started to feel powerful.

Of course, he can shoot fire and lighting from his hands and his weapon collection is only growing, which hasn’t hurt. But it’s not just the plasmids. It’s the power.

It’s the weird thrill he gets when he carves into the chest of a spider splicer and pulls out their heart. Could he have done that in Kansas? No way in hell. But in Rapture his mouth hasn’t stopped tasting of metal and blood.

It’s the rush of exhilaration when he brings down one of those metal behemoths. It’s the flushed, swollen feeling when he adds another body to that count, _because he can and nobody is here to stop him._ It’s the dizzying press inside his trousers when the crying stops and the sea slug squirms in his hand.

When Sander Cohen started to speak to him over the radio, jamming the airwaves, Jack realised he wasn’t the only one who knew that feeling of completely unregulated power.

That was only an hour or two ago. So much has happened since then.

He’s kneeling on the ground now, completely naked, the tiles slick and cold under his bare knees. Maybe it’s blood, maybe water. Probably both, knowing Rapture.

He’s not looking at the floor, though. He’s looking up at Sander Cohen.

“No,” says Cohen, lightly chiding. He’s shorter than Jack had imagined, but with Jack kneeling, he’s tall enough. “Not here. To the stage, little moth. Let the four of them watch what they might have had. Let the _world_ watch us.”

With the quadtych filling the stage, the only place Cohen can mean is right in front of it. In the spotlight. Doing this inches away from the photographs of the men he killed. That’s almost too much, even for Jack, and he almost argues — but then he realises. He’s looking at it the wrong way. He's honouring them, he thinks feverishly. They should be _proud_ that he'd let them watch.

He nods, and stands, and ascends the short staircase with Cohen’s eyes burning greedily into his back.

He’s learned some things here in Fort Frolic.

At first, he thought his task was just more of the same. He’s been photographing splicers alive and dead since he first got the camera from Peach. But that was always more of a means to an end. That was before he started paying real attention to the _subject_ , not just what the research could get him.

Photographing the disciples has taken murder, and added a whole new level of attention to detail. And Jack likes what he finds himself seeing.

It’s all there in the photographs as he kneels down before them. They’re dull and sepia, but his memories are sharp. The way Cobb’s despairing fury echoed off the walls when he saw what Jack had done to his splicer girls. The way Finnegan’s lips were blue and parted, and the thought of how he must have kept warm in the freezers for so long. The way Rodriguez shouted and drew it out and made it a competition. The way Fitzpatrick died.

His breath is tight in his chest, remembering, and he can feel himself growing slowly hard. Sander Cohen joins him on the stage, and makes a long, melodious noise of approval.

“I can tell you are a man of few words,” he purrs. “But who needs _words_ when one has _this_ —”

—he sweeps his fingers across the nearest photograph, caressing it—

“—and _this?_ ”

His voice drops to a low, wicked murmur. He strokes those same long fingers up the underside of Jack’s cock.

Jack’s eyes go wide and he chokes in a breath. His cock twitches higher, and his hips jerk, following the movement of Cohen’s hand. He’s not sure what he expected this to be like. He didn’t really _have_ expectations, he’s just playing this by ear as he does everything else. He certainly didn’t expect it to feel so good.

“Every part of you is built like a statue,” Cohen murmurs. His voice is soft and lazy, but his eyes go through Jack like a pin through an insect. “I suppose Ryan and Atlas think you a _brute_ , but I can see more clearly than they. And I think that you can, too.”

There’s a warm flush growing in Jack’s body. He looks sideways, drawn to the photographs again. Remembering the moment when each man’s eyes went dark. They thought they were strong enough to stop him. They weren’t. Maybe nobody is.

When he looks back at Cohen, the man’s trousers are open. He holds his cock in his hand, long and slender and still mostly soft. It’s different from Jack’s; there’s no wrinkled skin around the head, which juts out, bulbous. Jack stares at it, fascinated.

“Take me in your mouth, little moth,” orders Cohen, and Jack does.

He moves his tongue back and forth, feeling ridges and bumps, tasting a cocktail of salt and sweat and blood and dirt. Cohen hums in his throat, and rests a hand on top of Jack’s short hair. He tugs, pulling Jack further up his shaft, and Jack tries his best to breathe through his nose. 

Up close, there’s a tangle of hair and a cloying smell of too much aftershave. It’s overly sweet, but so much better than the corpses and seawater that the rest of Rapture smells like.

This is so far removed from anything in his experience. Just try this back on the surface. Just try hacking your way through several men and then sucking their master’s cock in the middle of his public auditorium. You’d be locked up. You’d be lynched. _But not here._ Here he can do anything he likes, and nobody can stop him.

And that thought is just making him harder.

Jack moves his tongue with growing confidence, and feels Cohen’s dick twitch and stiffen in his mouth as a reward. He moves his hand, too. He wraps it around his own cock and squeezes, and then whines as pleasure shoots through him. 

If you forced him to describe it, he’d say it’s like the pleasure he gets from a fresh harvest, when the ADAM drips from his teeth with a chemical tang. The thought makes him feel wild. It makes him want to scratch and bite in excitement. He bares his teeth, with Cohen’s cock still deep in his mouth.

Cohen pulls out of his mouth and slaps him across the face.

It hurts more than it should. Jack sees lines of fire in the cracked skin of Cohen’s palm.

“No _stinging_ allowed, little moth!”

His eyes are dark, and his voice is even darker. Jack tenses and draws away, anticipating a real attack — but Cohen just swoops forward and lays his hands on Jack’s shoulders. His cock still reaches out of his undone trousers. Jack’s not sure whether to look at it or at Cohen’s face. He compromises by squinting at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“No need to be afraid,” coos the old splicer. “You can still worship me with your mouth, and your hands. Those lovely, strong… _artist’s_ hands.”

As he speaks, Cohen takes one of Jack’s hands and runs his fingers lightly over the skin. Turns it over and moves his fingertips across Jack’s exposed wrist, across one of his tattoos, where a hundred little needle scars cluster. Jack’s cock twitches. He shivers, and finds himself closing the distance between them again.

Cohen smiles indulgently. Then he fists a hand in Jack’s hair, none too gently, and guides him back down to groin level.

Jack takes Cohen’s cock in his mouth again, and this time he tries to keep his teeth out of the way. He rubs his hands around the base of the shaft, pressing and kneading it. Cohen resumes humming his strange, happy tune. 

“Suck me,” he orders. Jack sucks, as if it’s a popsicle in his mouth, and is rewarded when Cohen’s hum turns into a lewd little moan. It’s a different sort of pleasure this time; the kind he gets from following an order well.

“Good boy,” murmurs Cohen, running his free hand across Jack’s temple.

Jack whines again.

There’s a tight, swollen feeling down inside him, levels above what he’s felt before, and he wants it to never go away. His whole body feels flushed. He lowers a hand to stroke his own cock again, and moans around Cohen as the pressure only grows stronger. He’s so hard now that his cock presses up against his stomach, straining for touch.

What would Atlas say if he could see this? Jack’s hands move faster just thinking about it, and his body gets even warmer. This isn’t part of their plan, it’s certainly not what he’s supposed to be doing. But where that would usually fill him with an inexplicable unease, now it makes him feel… frantic. Invincible.

Picturing Atlas pushes him further than he meant to go. The tight knot in his groin uncoils all at once, sending spikes of pleasure through him, making him shout incoherently as his hand tightens around Cohen’s cock. Come shoots out of him in ropy white lines and each one feels better than the last.

Seeing stars behind his eyelids, he almost misses Cohen’s shout:

“In such a _hurry_ , little moth? Where are your manners?!”

And he doesn’t resist when Cohen pulls him hard by his hair, shoving his cock into the back of Jack’s throat and making him nearly gag. He doesn’t resist while Cohen roughly fucks his mouth, in part because he’s still thinking of Atlas, and that feels right.

With an off-key cry, Cohen comes into Jack’s mouth. Jack chokes and makes a game attempt to swallow and breathe at the same time, but the sour white come still dribbles out of his mouth and onto his bare legs. He ends up pulling back and coughing, thumping himself on the chest while Cohen primly buttons himself up again.

“A skilled virgin,” he says, “or a connoisseur who simply refuses to learn?”

Jack’s too busy getting his breath under control to reply. Shame battles with his satisfied after-glow.

“No matter,” says Cohen. “If you are willing to learn… yes, I have begun many a work of art with much rougher clay than you.” He stares down at Jack, at his come-stained skin and flushed, naked body, evaluating him. Jack stares right back up at him. He doesn’t feel defiant, exactly. He feels… some strange mixture of pride and reverence. He’s done well, here. This was only the most recent of his revelations.

Maybe he’ll get a chance to do this with Atlas, too.

Cohen smiles like a satisfied cat at his expression.

“What a shame,” he says, “that your business takes you on beyond my domain. It’s been so long since I had a disciple of such… _energy._ ”

Jack can tell when he’s being dismissed, and he has to agree that it’s time to go. There’s a certain nervous energy he gets when he dawdles for too long, and now that it’s no longer blurred with pleasure, he can’t ignore it. It’s time to find Atlas again.

He stands, and wipes himself off as best he can. He finds his clothes, his weapons, all safely below the stage.

But Cohen has to have the last word. And as Jack strides out of the Fleet Hall, he hears the man’s voice come out of his radio, as soft and laviscous as if it were whispering right in his ear.

“Do hurry back, little moth.”


End file.
